


let it burn fast

by jjdez



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Dancer Katsuki Yuuri, M/M, Strangers to Lovers, Summer Lovers AU, Summer Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-20 17:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10667046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjdez/pseuds/jjdez
Summary: “Shit, no-- wait, that’s not what I meant,” he panics. “I didn’t mean-- you know. There's this place, a couple blocks away from here. They have, like, really good milkshakes, and I really liked talking to you, I mean Iliketalking to you, so maybe we can go get some milkshakes and... talk some more? Yeah, no this is stupid, I’m sor--”Yuuri doubles over in laughter, effectively cutting off the man next to him. Victor looks down at the sticky countertop with red cheeks. “No, wait,” he gasps. “I’m s--sorry. I’m not laughing at you, I swear.” Yuuri wipes at his eyes before continuing. “It’s just, I’ve been asked to go home with so many sleazy old men tonight and the one man I would actually go home with just asked me to get out of here for milkshakes. I was just surprised, is all,”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> please excuse any mistakes. i've read through this thing enough times that i would probably claw my own eyes out before reading it through another time

Perhaps, in hindsight, this situation is very much his fault. Maybe.

Yuuri doesn't have time to waste. He can't afford to take breaks or slack off, he doesn't have the luxury of slowing down or stopping. He’s still in school, trying to get his degree while simultaneously making a career out of his dance. He knows his window of opportunity for the sport is small, that the older he gets the less time he has. Because he knows this, there isn’t a second he can to waste. He can’t afford to wait until he finishes school to throw himself into his career, having already started a year late to travel for competitions following his high school graduation.

He’s constantly pushing forward, going harder, _one more time_ , working himself raw, physical and mental exhaustion no match for unending determination and relentless dedication. His body and mind are constantly being pushed past every surpassable limit, always demanding more.

The weeks leading up to finals had been a lot busier than he had anticipated, and he lost a lot more practice time than he’d adjusted his schedule to allow. Which, of course, was a problem. His body was weakened from the countless all-nighters and added stress of preparing for his exams and he knew it would be problematic if he didn’t start immediately working to fix that.

So with finals over and done with and summer break right around the corner, he threw himself back into his training tenfold, finally free of having his studies breathing down the back of his neck, if only for a couple months. He vowed to make up for lost time and spent every second of free time he had either at the gym, in the studio, or on his favorite route for his daily jogs, never taking a break and never slowing down. Maybe it was that mindset that had him skipping one too many meals in favor of practicing an extra hour, found him losing a few too many hours of sleep so he could run through his routines some more.

Nobody was oblivious to how much he was pushing himself, even before the accident. They made their concerns known countless times, but he was headstrong and refused to listen. He was a time bomb, ticking and ticking and leaving everyone around him in increasing anxiety while they were forced to stand there and watch him slowly and inevitably self destruct.

Mari had given him talk after talk about taking breaks and resting properly, his parents, too kind to really interfere, would give him subtle suggestions to maybe take the day off and help out around the onsen, Minako had even gone as far as to ban him from the studio for a couple days to rest. Which, of course, had resulted in him hitting up the gym for those three days. Maybe that's why he’s here, in this hospital room, with his sister nagging his ear off about taking better care of himself for what feels like the tenth time in the whole two days he’s been here. It’s ironic, really.

Yuuri doesn't have time to waste, and here he is, wasting time in a moderately sized white room that smells of antiseptic ointment and his wounded spirits. Which, for lack of better words, sucks.

"You're still not listening," Mari sighs. "I don't know how we’re supposed to fix this if you won't to take it seriously." He lets his head fall back against the pillow with a gentle _thud_ and resists the urge to roll his eyes. He should really keep count of the amount of times he's heard that one.

 _Fourteen_ , his brain helpfully supplies.

He turns his head slightly to where his sister is sitting beside the bed. She almost looks as annoyed as he feels then, with her arms crossed and jaw locked, sat in a chair that’s probably just as uncomfortable as it looks. He might have been intimidated in any other situation, but right now all he can feel is overwhelming annoyance to anything and everything.

"I don't need you to ‘fix this’. I’m handling everything just fine the way it is." He flinches the moment the words leave his mouth, already anticipating the condescending laugh his sister graces him with. He doesn’t take it back though. He never takes it back.

"Of course, Yuuri," she snorts. "You're doing great. We’re here having this conversation right now because you’re doing _j_ _ust fine_ on your own." She says with a roll of her eyes.

Yuuri really doesn't have anything to say about that, so he doesn't. He fleetingly recognizes that he’s being a bit childish when he turns his head to face the other way but the only thing that hurts more than his head right now is his pride and he can't find it in himself to really care. He knows she’s right, however much he hates to admit it. He knows what he’s doing isn't particularly safe or healthy. It doesn’t take a genius to notice the angry bags under his eyes or that slight limp he had for almost three weeks straight all those months ago when he refused to let his knee rest properly after a particularly bad landing. Even the sweet old lady he runs into every morning on his way to the studio had worriedly commented on the state he'd been in the morning after a relatively late night of training the evening before.

There was also that one time he'd been scolded by Phichit over one of their routine skype calls because apparently he looked so tired that _I can hear your muscles screaming all the way in California_ , which, he’s still only about 99 percent sure Phichit was joking because he’s pretty sure he, himself, can hear their mournful weeping sometimes.

And he had been fine. Everything was going perfectly, and he was content. He wasn’t a part of a professional ballet, instead choosing to compete and go freelance to perform for shows or special occasions. He’d been making decent money with his performances and had come first in the World Ballet Competition the year previous and was readying his routines for that year’s competition, ready to fight to keep his title. He’d never been more inspired, more ready and determined.

He was fine, until he wasn’t. He wants to say it had happened so fast that he hadn’t seen it coming, but that wasn’t exactly true. He saw the signs, looked them straight in the eye even, and then proceeded to turn the other way. He felt his body giving out on him, warning him to slow down, that this wasn’t _okay_ , but he had become so good at ignoring these warnings and pushing them aside that he hadn’t realized, or acknowledged rather, how sick he was becoming until there was nothing he could do to stop the devastation that had been unavoidably creeping up behind him. So, yes. This situation is very much his fault.

He’d stayed late at the studio that night, as he had been making a habit of lately, promising Minako he would lock up and clean up the equipment on the way out. Like any other day, he’d lost track of time, running through his routines, tweaking, perfecting, and improving his choreography until he was doubled over and the sun was starting to peek through the spaces in the blinds, casting soft lines of light on the floor beneath him. He remembers it being beautiful to look at, and how the softness contrasted greatly with the sharp pain in his side.

Looking back on it now, he thinks he may have been a bit unreasonable when he decided to go through his routines once more before making his way home (and taking a quick nap before going out again for his morning run and finding his way back to the gym for his pre-practice strength and endurance training). He had been so sure he had one more left in him, but his body clearly had other ideas when not even halfway through he felt his legs give out beneath him as he landed from a relatively innocent saut de chat. He remembers hitting the floor, particularly painlessly all things considered. He had some slight pain in his right hip, but that was about as far as the damage went from the fall.

No, it wasn’t the fall that had done him in. He remembers the fear sitting heavy on his chest as he lay there, all the energy drained from his body in the seconds it took for him to hit the ground. He remembers being unable to move, not _wanting to move_ , choosing instead to let the exhaustion pull him under. He remembers a headache and bright white lights and a low and steady beeping coming from somewhere he didn’t care enough yet to think about. He remembers his mother crying, his sister yelling, and Minako’s probably completely justified punches to his shoulder. He remembers the crushing guilt he felt as the frustrated hits became weaker and voices became softer as she told him about the uneasiness she’d felt when she went to open the studio the next morning, only to find it already unlocked, the _fear_ she’d felt as she found him there, unconscious on the hardwood floor and _we thought you were_ dead, _Yuuri_ with gentle tears slipping down cheeks.

His resulting injuries aren’t all that serious, despite all the upset they’d caused. Predictably, he’d collapsed from overexertion and malnutrition with the added the lack of sleep. The extent of his outward injuries went as far as a bruised hip and a splitting headache. The doctors were keeping him there on bed rest for a couple days to ensure he was getting rest properly, which he was upset about at first but then came to realize that if they had released him right away, he probably would have just gone right back to training.

“Look, it’s just—” he hears Mari shift in her chair. “We care about you, you know? I feel like sometimes you don’t realize that.” He hears her shift again, followed by some slight shuffling, but he stays facing the other way. He already knows the look she’ll have on her face. The one filled with _pity_ and faux sympathy, and he can’t stand when people think they have to pity him. “It’s not easy, seeing you hurt yourself like this.” Again, he refuses to answer, instead opting to busy himself with pinching at the rough bedsheets. He can’t bring himself himself to feel remorse when he hears a defeated sigh from behind him. “You know I’ll support you, whatever you do. You know that. But when you put yourself at risk like this you make it hard to be on your side,” she continues, her tone bordering on pleading.

This time, he does feel the guilt start to creep up on him. He knows that. Of course he knows that. He has no bigger supporter than his older sister, who travels wherever he goes to cheer for him at competitions, waving that ridiculously embarrassing banner she’d made with Minako all those years ago (right before his first competition, at a whopping six years old, and somehow managed to stay in tact a whole sixteen years later). Who spends insane amounts of money to sit front row at all his performances. Who, whenever she can’t make it because of work or something else of extreme importance because _there is nothing more important than seeing my baby brother kickin’ it out there,_  would send him endless snapchat videos wishing him good luck, pictures of Vicchan sleeping curled up on his pillow, videos of his Vicchan wishing him good luck, would stream his performances on that small TV they had and corral practically whole neighborhood into the inn to watch them.

Of course he knows his sister supports him. He knows that better than anyone, and yet all he could feel is this irrational sense of betrayal and anger bubbling hot and ugly in his chest because she just _doesn’t understand._ She doesn’t understand what it’s like to be judged and scrutinized by thousands of pairs of eyes at once, standing alone on a big stage and expected to fill the space with complicated turns and pretty costumes and make people believe that this, that _he_ , is worth their time and hard earned money. She doesn’t understand the bristling disappointment and failure in the back of his mind if he gave a performance anything less than the absolute best he could deliver. She doesn’t understand the pressure to be better, to be prettier, to be more. She couldn’t possibly understand.

He’s a dancer, a performer, an actor who retells age old tales with his body. She, like everyone else, only sees the graceful jumps, elegant spins, and impossibly straight legs and pointed toes. They don’t see the strain in his calves that telling him he needs to work harder, they don’t see the tightness in his chest that telling him to push further, they don’t feel the exhaustion that demands him to keep going, he should be able to do more. He’s a victim to his passion, held hostage by his love for it, and they don’t understand.

They couldn’t possibly understand, because despite all this, he loves it. He loves it, and if his body would allow it, he’ll do it again every day for the rest of his life. He loves being able to tell stories with his body, enrapturing an audience with the flick of his wrists and the kick of his legs. He loves feeling the music dwell deep within his bones and find a home there, keeping him alive, fueling his desires. He loves the muscle aches and the burn in his lungs, he lives for the pain that proves he can feel and the gasping breaths that prove there was air in his lungs. There was no way they could possibly understand, because sometimes he doesn’t even fully understand it himself.

“I know, Mari. I know, and I promise I’ll start taking it easier when I start training again on Tuesday—”

“You—” she cuts him off with a bitter laugh, doing nothing to mask her blatant dislike. “You can’t be serious.” she scoffs again, the condescension dripped from her words and filling the room with a tense and suffocating atmosphere. “You can’t seriously be telling me you plan to keep up with this— this _barbaric_ training of yours not even a day after they’re releasing you from the hospital.”

And Yuuri does finally turn around at that, probably too quickly if the pain in his temples is any indication. He ignores it. Mari’s standing now, farther from the bed, her arms still crossed tightly over her chest, the frustration evident across her face. He wouldn’t doubt he has a similar expression across his own face. “Of course I am,” he snaps. “Do you know how much time I’ve wasted? I’ve been here for two days already, Mari. I don’t have two days to spend laying around in bed. I need to be out there—” he cuts off with a grimace when the pain in his head worsens from the raising of his voice. He grits his teeth in frustration and does his best to blink away the prickling sensation in the back of his eyes, unsure if the feeling is from pain or anger. He thinks both.

How could he be so _weak_? He’s won international competitions with a sprained ankle and a strained hamstring to boot, so why was he being bested by a measly headache now? It’s infuriating, the defenselessness he feels. “Are you kidding me? Look at yourself, Yuuri. You can barely have this conversation right now, do you really think you’re in any shape to continue on like you always do?” She moves closer to where he was sat upright now before thinking better of it and pacing to the other side of the room, running her hands angrily over her face. He fists at the bedsheets again, the tough fabric becoming somewhat of a grounder for him somewhere in the past ten minutes. “You need a goddamn break.”

“I’m _fine_ ” he manages to push out between his teeth. “It’s just a headache. I’ll take something for it, and it’ll be _fine_.” He realizes somewhere in the back of his mind that he’s being unrealistic, that maybe he should listen to the numerous people, the actual trained professionals, that have been telling him to take it easy, but he’s taken to ignoring that part of his subconscious since it seems to like getting in the way of his goals and ambitions.

Mari laughs again, and it makes him angrier than he probably has any right to be. There’s no humor in her laugh, he hears the exasperation loud and clear. The childish irritation in him briefly thinks about turning around again, even though that would do nothing to stop Mari from talking to him, but he quickly realizes that would probably be a bad idea. He hears Mari talking again but now there’s a ringing in his ears and the pain in his head isn’t doing much to retain his interest in this conversation.

He doesn’t remember when she gets fed up and leaves, but he realizes much later that the room is empty now and judging by the silence all around him, it’s probably late. He also doesn’t know when he fell asleep but he figures that’s what happened at some point. He reaches for his phone and a much too bright _3:47_ stares back at him until the brightness aggravates him enough to force him to shut it off.

He doesn’t remember when he falls asleep this time either.

-

It’s not for another two weeks that the topic is brought up again. It’s a bit past one in the morning when Yuuri finally makes his way back home from the studio. It wasn’t as late as he had been staying lately, and he’s somewhat proud of the fact.

Instead of finding an empty room like he was expecting, he’s met with a scene that looks like it came straight out of an episode of Intervention and he feels the dread pooling in the pit of his stomach at the sight of it. His parents are sat at the small table in the corner of the room, softly holding a conversation with Mari and Minako across from them. At the sound of the front door closing, four pairs of eyes look up at him. He nervously shifts on his feet, slightly unnerved from the sudden attention.

“What—” he nervously laughs, awkwardly rubbing at the back of his neck. “What are you all doing up? It’s late.”

He’s met with thoroughly unamused looks from his sister and mentor, and worried expressions from his parents. “We could be asking the same to you,” Minako affirms with narrowed eyes. “You told me you’d be going home after one more run through. That was three hours ago, Yuuri.”

He winces. That hadn’t been a lie. He really had been planning on going home after one more run. But he kept finding something to fix, something he could’ve done better, a transition to make smoother. He likes to think the extra time was completely justified. He almost says as much, but quickly thinks better of it after meeting his sister’s matching glare. “I—” he cuts off with a sigh. “Sorry.”

“Sorry.” Mari snorts. “He’s sorry. We haven’t seen you for more than ten minutes in the mornings for at least two weeks. When were you planning on actually showing your face around here? When we have to go pick you up at hospital again after your stubborn ass gets itself hurt for the second time?”

“Mari…” his mother softly warns. She turns back to him with warm eyes and a hesitant smile. “We are so proud of you, dear. You’ve never stopped making us proud, but we can’t help but feel…” she pauses for a moment, seeming unable to find the right words. He knows the feeling well enough. “We’re concerned,” she finally says.

He gently lets his bag hit the floor before walking a few steps closer to the table they’re sat at as he tries to figure out a way to talk himself out of this situation. He likes to think he’s become quite good at quelling his family's concerns with sweet words and promises that no, he’s not actually training for the entire time he’s out and yes, he is taking sufficient breaks, and no, he’s not forgetting to eat his lunch.

How much of that is actually true, he’d prefer they not know.

“Concerned?” He says with a small smile. “Why are you concerned? I’m doing fine now.” For what it was worth, he was doing perfectly fine. His headaches subsided a little less than a week ago, and the bruise on his hip had disappeared mere days after he was given the okay to return home. His bad knee had even been given time to heal while he was put on bedrest. So for all intents and purposes, he was basically like brand new.

“It’s not now that we’re worried about,” his dad chimes in. “and it wasn’t ‘now’ we were concerned about last month either.” His eyes, which had previously been trained down on the table flick up to meet his own. His father, although a man of few words, is rarely seen without a smile on his face. The somberness in his stare is uncharacteristic enough to hit Yuuri with a wave of uneasiness.

Nobody says anything for a brief moment after that and apparently nervous laughter is the only sound his body can manage to fill the silence with, so he lets out another small laugh before picking up his duffle again. He squeezes the soft handle once before letting it drop again. He’s not sure why he picked it up in the first place, but he doesn’t really dwell on that too much because his eyes automatically follow the sudden movement of his dad’s hands. He vaguely notes that his father reaches into his coat pocket before sliding something across the table and—

Oh.

_Oh. ___

____

That’s a plane ticket. A plane ticket with his name printed in big bold letters, right there in the top left corner.

____

Yuuri blinks twice. When the paper doesn’t go away, he takes his glasses off and cleans them on the sleeve of his jacket. The piece of paper is still sitting on the table when he puts them back on though, so he reaches down with a shaky hand and picks it up. As he was hoping, the text does not, in fact, change in time it takes for the paper to be brought closer to his face.

____

He’s not sure what to think about this. His mind works through many worst case scenarios that probably wouldn’t even make sense to a logical, right minded person before he comes to the conclusion that this is most likely some kind of joke. Yes, it has to be a joke. He stares at the paper in his hand another thirty seconds before he actually laughs out loud because this is too ridiculous to be real but nobody is saying anything, just staring at him with this look that he can’t read and _why isn’t anybody saying anything?_  He now realizes that nobody else is laughing and looks back up in disbelief, eyes wide. “This—” he looks back down at the paper, then back up at his family once more. Their grim faces and worried expressions morphed into sympathy and understanding at his obvious bewilderment and he’s just so _confused_. When nobody immediately explains to him what exactly is going on, he mutters out something that he’s pretty sure sounds like “Someone please explain.”

____

Mari eventually takes pity on him. “We know that you’re an adult and you can make your own decisions,” she says, “and we’re not forcing you to go anywhere. We’re not shipping you away, that’s not what this is. In the end, the decision is still yours to make. If you stay or if you go.” She lifts her eyes from her coffee cup to meet his own. He takes in the dark circles beneath her eyes and is met with a very unpleasant feeling as he thinks about the fact that they’re not accustomed to staying up this late to wait for him, his eyes traveling sheepishly across the rest of mugs laid out on the table. He does his best not to look away from her gaze this time.

____

“Like mom said, we’re concerned. You’re twenty-two years old, little brother. People your age are out getting drunk and having fun during the summer. The only time you come home at ungodly hours of the morning is when you couldn’t manage to tear yourself away from the studio. I can’t even remember the last time you brought a boy home, or at least mentioned interacting with someone other than that old lady that tells you about her cats every morning.” Yuuri felt his face flush looked away. Okay, so he hadn’t been on a date since he was seventeen. It wasn’t a big deal. He simply hadn’t any interest in a relationship once he started training in earnest. He believes with how hectic his schedule is, relationships involving any kind of commitment would be pointless, not to mention unfair to his partner. Committing himself to his career sounded much more appealing. But that was besides the point.

____

“Your friends are concerned about you too. You know, Phichit wasn’t too happy when he had to hear from me that you’ve managed to land yourself in the hospital.” the corner of her mouth quirks up a bit into a half smile. Yuuri inwardly cringes when he imagines the over the top reaction his best friend must have had. “It was his idea, actually.”

____

“What?”

____

“The ticket.” Mari must notice the utter confusion written across his face because she lets out a little sigh before continuing with a slight smile. “When I had to take your place on your skype date while you were in the hospital—”

____

“They’re not _dates_ , Mari—”

____

"—he brought up the idea of you staying with him for the summer. I’ll admit, I thought the idea was pretty stupid at first. I knew you’d never agree to taking so long off your sacred training schedule. But after some thought, we thought we might be able to convince you this time. It’s off season now, right? And you need a break anyway, so we figured it would be worth a shot at least.”

____

The ticket. It makes sense. His family aren’t exactly the type to decide he needs a spontaneous vacation to California out of the blue. But Phichit? He was exactly the type.

____

“We think it would be good for you,” Minako says. “A friend of mine runs a studio down there, she said you’re free to use it if you go stir crazy,” she narrows her eyes again and points an accusing finger in his direction “but she will be closely watching you to make sure you’re not there for ten hours straight every day.”

____

The problem here is, Yuuri really wants to turn down this offer. He wants to slide the ticket back across the table and tell his parents that he’s sorry and thank you but he really needs to focus on his career right now, he doesn’t have time for a vacation. But the thing is, he hasn’t seen his best friend outside of a computer screen in almost four years and the promise of access to a studio might be peaking his interest a bit.

____

He remembers taking dance classes with Phichit on the weekends with the money they’d earned from their mundane weekend jobs at Wendy’s back in Detroit. They would stumble into any classes they could get their hands on just for the fun of it— lyrical, hip-hop, ballroom, disco, _pole dancing_ (Phichit had only been seventeen at the time, so Yuuri had to be the one to sign him off on the waiver, freshly turned eighteen and being the nearest legal adult. It was almost as humiliating as it was thrilling). The thought of dancing with his best friend again, although Phichit chose not to pursue the sport past high school, makes him a little bit giddy with excitement. So, unfortunately, he is actually considering this absurd idea, taking two full months off his training to frolick around California with his childhood best friend. Just a small bit.

____

Microscopic, really.

____

But the interest is there nonetheless and he figures his family must have picked up on that based on the way they’re all smiling now. Call him a weak man, but he’s no match for his mother’s smile.

____

He bites his lip and chides himself internally for being such an open book. He looks down at the ticket for what is probably the tenth time tonight and guiltily realizes that plane tickets aren’t cheap. Even though he knows he’ll definitely reimburse them later, he let’s out a sigh of defeat. If you think about it, he could have argued more. If he was really adamant on staying in Hasetsu, he could have put up a bit more of a fight. He knows that if he flat out refused, nobody would have forced him to go. But a part of him is excited and _happy_ at the possibility of getting away from this for a little while, from the pressure he puts on himself. If he really, really wanted to, he knows he could have put the ticket down, walked back to his room and that would have been the end of it. Knowing this, he folds the paper up neatly before meeting the eyes of his family again.

____

“Thank you,” he says. “I should probably start packing then, huh?”

____

He tries to pretend he doesn’t hear their cheers as he attempts to make a sneaky exit to his bedroom. This is proved futile, however, when he is promptly buried in a pile of hugs and obnoxious cheek kisses. Mari ruffles his hair, his mother pinches his cheeks, his dad gives him a firm pat on the back, and Minako shouts out an excited cheer. He’s not sure when she had the time to break out the banner, but it’s there now, in all its faded and aged glory. Vicchan of course hears the commotion and wants in on the cuddles too, so now Yuuri tries to accept that this is actually his life when he has a plane ticket in one hand, a glass of sake in the other (when did that even get there?), an overly excited poodle pawing at his pant leg, and a 9:30am flight to catch in two days.

____

He realizes that this is in no way exciting enough for this type of celebration to be appropriate. He doesn’t say anything about it.

____

Despite himself, the smile on his face this time feels like a real one.

____

-

____

The airport is crowded. He’s been at baggage claim for a whole three minutes and so far four people have ran into him and the guy standing next to him has accidentally touched his ass so many times he’s beginning to question whether or not it’s not much of an accident anymore. He takes a step to the side just in case.

____

He eventually manages to locate his bags without much incident and starts making his way to where he had agreed to meet Phichit. He soon realizes that he has no idea where he’s going and despite speaking fairly fluent English, the millions of signs directing him to various restrooms aren’t really doing much for him. He’s saved from his inner turmoil of the unfamiliar airport when he hears a familiar voice somewhere in the distance.

____

“Yuuri!”

____

Before he can fully turn around, he’s tackled by an armful of excited best friend. He breaks into a smile and delightedly laughs when Phichit tries to lift him off the ground. It goes about as well as you’d imagine. Which is, they’re currently sprawled out on the floor of a crowded airport while everyone around them scowls and try not to roll their luggage over their inconvenient pile of friendship.

____

With a quick glance around, Yuuri realizes that dramatic airport reunions aren’t actually as common as the movies say they are and they’re causing quite a bit of a scene right now. When he quietly relays this information to Phichit however, his friend laughs at him but leads them to the uber waiting for them outside anyway. “Man,” Phichit sighs wistfully. “It really has been too long.”

____

The last time they’d seen each other was shortly after their high school graduation, a little over four years ago, before Yuuri had left to travel the world with Minako and Phichit moved out to Los Angeles to study film and photography “in its natural element”. Whatever that means. They’ve both made names for themselves since leaving the small state of Michigan behind after high school, Yuuri with his dance and Phichit becoming a big name on YouTube (“I’m a lifestyle vlogger, Yuuri, not a beauty guru”). He agrees wholeheartedly. It had been way too long.

____

After a short pause he nonchalantly adds, “Y’know, especially after I got the shit scared out of me when your sister answered the phone for you and told me you weren’t currently available because you’d nearly cracked your head open after passing out in the studio in the middle of the night.” Yuuri lets out an undignified squawk and stumbles trying to find a decent response to that.

____

“Phichit,” he absolutely does not whine, “You act like I did it on purpose.”

____

Phichit laughs again and bumps Yuuri’s shoulder with his own. “Kidding, kidding. Really though, it’s great to have you here.”

____

Guilt has become a recurring theme among Yuuri’s emotions these past few weeks, and the smile Phichit gives him then hits him a little too hard with a whole new wave of regret. As he watches the smaller boy out of the corner of his eye, his mind is filled with thoughts of how he could’ve been a better friend, a better son, a better brother, could’ve spared more time than their once a week skype calls, could’ve visited more, _should have_. He should’ve texted more often, asked how his day was going, how were his classes, how were things going with that guy he’d mentioned last month, he should’ve _cared more._

____

He thinks about giving his mother a quick “good morning” and a kiss on the cheek before rushing out the door, about not coming home until his whole family was already fast asleep, never saying goodnight. But instead, he chose to ignore his relationships with his friends and family and threw himself head first into his career. He brushed off family dinners, postponed phone calls, delivered half assed happy birthdays over text and video chat. He traded warm hugs for flashy costumes and leotards, heartfelt laughter for chafed ankles and blistered heels, 3 am conversations for late night practices.

____

He thinks about how despite his neglectfulness, Phichit still offered to house him for the summer, paid for overnight shipping to send him fuzzy socks for the plane ride because Vicchan had gotten ahold of his and Phichit knew he hated long plane rides without the fluffy clouds hugging his feet, made the commute to pick him up at the airport because he knew Yuuri hated being alone in crowded places.

____

Also, despite their lengthy separation, Phichit can still read him with all too much ease. Before his self loathing can get too out of control, he feels a gentle nudge against his arm, bringing him back to the present situation. “Hey, come on now. I didn’t mean it like that. I know Katsuki Yuuri is a busy man,” he jokes as they step into the car that had arrived for them. “Being the best damn dancer in Japan takes a lot work, I’ll bet.”

____

Yuuri purses his lips and looks down at his shoes, ignores that last part for now because he doesn’t have it in him to argue. “You should never be too busy for your friends and family.” he says shamefully.

____

“Hey,” Phichit says softly. And Yuuri knows that voice. He knows it too well and he knows the face that goes with it. He locks his jaw and prepares to be pitied once again, but when he meets his best friend’s gaze there’s not a trace of pity, just understanding and _forgiveness_ and Yuuri wants to cry because he definitely doesn’t deserve a friend like Phichit. “You’re here now, right? Let’s not think about what we could’ve done, because we’re doing it now.”

____

Before Yuuri can come up with a response telling Phichit that it’s not “we” because the blame was surely on Yuuri, there’s a phone in his face and a camera shutter going off. Four years ago, Yuuri would’ve been annoyed and made Phichit delete it. Now, Yuuri laughs and smiles because he missed this, missed his best friend, even with his ridiculous social media addiction.

____

“Now. You’re going to sleep off that jet lag and then we are going to get _wasted_.”

____

-

____

Two days later, when Yuuri has sufficiently napped away his jet lag and has been roped into taking more selfies than he’s probably ever taken in his entire life, Phichit makes good on his promise. They’re currently in Phichit’s guest room, now appointed Yuuri’s temporary bedroom. Yuuri is sat on the bed watching in horror as Phichit digs through his suitcases and pulls out various scandalous articles of clothing that Yuuri doesn’t even remember packing, let alone _owning_ , and could never actually step outside in without dying of mortification. At one point, he pulls out one of the crop tops Yuuri likes to use for training on especially hot days. It’s a tiny thing, tight and black only coming a few inches below his chest, the strappy top dipping low on his collar and he has this look in his eyes that has Yuuri grabbing it in a panic and insisting that he is _absolutely not going out in that_. He stashes the shirt under his pillow and ignores his friend’s disappointed pouts.

____

Much to Phichit’s dismay, the top stays put away for the remainder of their impromptu styling session.

____

_(”But Yuuri, you’d look so hot! How are you supposed to pick up nice looking guys if you’re scared of all your sexy clothing?"_

____

_”W—what? I’m not trying to ‘pick up’ guys and I am_ not _scared of my... clothing.”_ )

____

The top he does end up wearing, however, he isn’t sure is much better. It’s another crop top, because Yuuri has too many and Phichit is insistent. Its slightly more decent, coming slightly above his belly button, three quarter sleeves, the neck coming halfway up his throat. It’s not something he’d ever considered he would ever be actually going out in and he sends a quick thanks to whoever’s up there that he’d dropped the extra weight around his stomach a couple months ago. As he stares at his reflection, squeezed into the tightest pair of jeans he’s ever seen, he can’t help but feel just a little bit _sexy_. His hair has been done and slicked back by an all too enthusiastic Phichit, who insisted he keep his glasses, and he was even convinced to apply a tiny bit of mascara to his lashes. He rarely ever wears makeup outside of competitions or performances, so he’s slightly taken aback at how long his eyelashes look now.

____

After an experimental flutter of his eyes in the mirror, he flushes a deep red and quickly looks away from his reflection. He’s caught in a limbo of feeling confident, beautiful and feeling completely mortified. If it weren’t for the pregame shot he’d been given earlier he probably would’ve refused to leave the apartment all together.

____

“Phichit, I— maybe this is a bit too much…” he turns sideways in the mirror and immediately yelps when he sees how much of his backside is being displayed by these jeans. Stepping into the room, Phichit pretends to consider it for all of three seconds before happily coming up behind Yuuri in the mirror.

____

“I disagree. I’m still mourning the loss of that _magnificent_ top you’re hiding from me. It’s a tragic shame.”

____

Yuuri eloquently sputters for a good thirty seconds before snapping his mouth shut and pursing his lips. He gives himself another once over and frowns. “I look so…”

____

“What? Gorgeous? Alluring, sexy? Well, here’s a bit of information for you, you are all of those things. A pair of jeans and a little bit of skin isn’t gonna make you attractive.” Phichit puts both of his hands on his shoulders and solemnly meets his eyes in the mirror. It’s a little awkward considering he’s a bit shorter than Yuuri, but they make it work. “I want you to repeat after me.”

____

“Oh God, no, Phichit, not again—”

____

“Look at yourself. Come one, go ahead do it.” Yuuri sighs dramatically and meets his own reflection again.

____

“Good. Now I want you to say, ‘I am a beautiful, worthy, wonderful, hot piece of—’”

____

“ _Phichit_.”

____

“Okay, okay sorry. But I’m being serious here. You look great. Those thighs could kill a man. Solid ten out of ten. The best—”

____

“Okay, yes, I get it, please stop.” He somehow manages to flush a deeper shade of red than he already was and turns his gaze to the side, covering his face with his hands. A deep breath. He looks back to the image in front of him with newfound determination because he is an adult dammit and he can be sexy if he wants to be. He made the trip to California to let go, to do new things and spend time with his best friend, and he refuses to let his mind get in the way of that. He’s going to go out in these jeans and this top and he’s going to get completely shit faced and dance with cute boys just to spite himself for thinking he can’t. Before he can question his probably faulty logic, he tells Phichit this much.

____

His friend lets out an excited _whoop_ before practically dragging him out the front door.

____

He tries his best not to regret this decision.

____

-

____

Three peach daiquiris and one more mental pep talk later, Yuuri is covered in shiny silver body glitter and there’s a drawing of something he doesn’t remember in sharpie on his lower back. He doesn’t think he wants to find out what it is.

____

He does what he came here to do and dances with anyone who offers, the alcohol bringing out a confidence he usually prefers to keep at bay. For now, however, he thinks it’s okay. He dances until his cheeks hurt from smiling and laughing and there’s a slight sheen of sweat on his neck and chest. As the night goes on and the other people around him start to get drunker and touchier, Yuuri realizes he is far too sober for this.

____

Phichit was separated from him somewhere along the way and after turning down another drink from a shady guy forty-something guy in a leather jacket, Yuuri makes his way to the bar to give his feet a break. He plops down on the plush leather seat with a sigh and orders another drink.

____

“That one’s on me.”

____

The bartender looks over his shoulder and gives an unimpressed look to the owner of the voice. Startled, Yuuri whips around with a protest on his lips, “O—oh, you don’t—” his words die off, however, when his eyes meet bright blue and has to grip the edges of his seat to reassure himself that he is not actually drowning in this very moment. His previous confidence leaves all at once, leaving him a stuttering, awkward mess. He isn’t sure how long he stares, gaping like a fish, before he comes back to his senses and clears his throat. The body in front of him could be the cliché poster boy for California, with perfectly styled platinum blonde (silver?) hair and the brightest blue eyes he’s ever seen on a person, with his skinny jeans and muscle tank. Yuuri guesses his boots are probably worth more than his car. The man looks on in amusement before occupying the empty seat next to Yuuri. “T—thank you, but you don’t have to do that.” He scolds himself for stuttering again and hesitantly meets the gaze of the man next to him, almost melting right there as their eyes meet again.

____

“Please, it’s the least I can do after you danced so beautifully out there,” the man purrs and holy shit is that an _accent_? Yuuri flushes and averts his eyes. “I have to say, you were absolutely captivating.” He lifts one of Yuuri’s hands to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to his knuckles. Yuuri tries his best to suppress the squeak that builds up in his throat at the action. He’s only half successful and thanks the loud music for covering it up.

____

“Ah, that wasn’t— I didn’t— um, thank you,” Yuuri grimaces at his own awkwardness and distracts himself by thanking the bartender, who puts his drink down in front of him. The man, to his surprise, isn’t put off by his clumsiness and laughs so beautifully that Yuuri doesn’t even mind that he’s being laughed at. The bartender places another glass in front of the man, whose name he should really get at this point, and he briefly notes that this man must be a regular.

____

Yuuri takes a minute to remember the words Phichit said to him back in the apartment. He can do this. He can take two seconds to stop staring at the gorgeous biceps resting on the top of the bar and flirt back. That's what this is, right? He's pretty sure that's what's happening right now. He takes a sip from his glass before looking back at the man with a small smirk.

____

“And who can I thank for this drink?” Yuuri asks in a flirtatious voice that surprises even himself. The man looks startled for a moment before answering.

____

“Right, yes. I'm Victor.” A surprised laugh escapes Yuuri as the man—Victor’s— confident aura seems to disappear with that one sentence. Yuuri finds himself charmed anyway.

____

“Yuuri.” he says over the rim of his glass. The man looks shocked that he answered.

____

“What?”

____

Yuuri laughs again, suddenly feeling much more comfortable falling into conversation with the beautiful man sitting next to him. “My name,” he says. “My name is Yuuri.”

____

“Ah, yes, right. Of course. That’s a lovely name.” Victor is blushing now and Yuuri is absolutely endeared at the sight. He wonders how it’s possible to become this smitten with a person in this little time. He blames the alcohol.

____

“Thank you,” he says again, with a blush of his own making its way up his neck. He feels like a teenager again, blushing and stuttering his way through a conversation with a cute boy.

____

"My dog is named Victor." Yuuri says thoughtfully, trying to fill the silence. He grimaces when he realizes that he's just compared a hot stranger to his dog. When he looks back over at hot Californian Victor, ready to make an even bigger ass of himself with a thorough apology on the tip of his tongue about how don't worry, his dog would never be able to pull off that shirt, the man looks ecstatic, bearing an adorable heart shaped grin. _As if he couldn't already get any more attractive_ , he scoffs to himself.

____

" _Really?_ " he excitedly gushes, "Do you have pictures? Please tell me you have pictures." 

____

As they fall into mindless small talk, Yuuri learns that Victor, too, has a poodle at home, and was over the moon to hear that Yuuri has one of his own too. He also learns that Victor is artistically challenged and uses coconut flavored lip balm. He doesn’t know what to do with this information, but finds it precious anyway. Yuuri, in turn, tells Victor that he despises walnuts and refuses to wear matching socks.

____

“Do you,” Victor starts, a little while later when the pause in their conversation isn't awkward, but content. “Do you want to maybe… get out of here?” Yuuri raises a single eyebrow as he looks towards Victor. Victor notices his expression and pales before hurrying to explain himself.

____

“Shit, no— wait, that’s not what I meant,” he panics. “I didn’t mean— you know. There—there’s this place, a couple blocks away from here. They have, like, really good milkshakes, and I really liked talking to you, I mean I _like_ talking to you, so maybe we can go get some milkshakes and... talk some more?" He coughs. "Yeah, no this is stupid, I’m sor—”

____

Yuuri doubles over in laughter, effectively cutting off the man next to him. Victor looks down at the sticky countertop with red cheeks. “No, wait,” he gasps. “I’m s—sorry. I’m not laughing at you, I swear.” Yuuri wipes at his eyes before continuing. “It’s just, I’ve been asked to go home with so many sleazy old men tonight and the one man I would actually go home with just asked me to get out of here for milkshakes. I was just surprised, is all,” he looks at Victor with an unbelievably fond smile.

____

When Yuuri first saw Victor, he seemed the typical playboy type, the kind to pull you in and leave you heartbroken and pining after getting his fill. He realizes now that it was probably a bit unfair to make that assumption, especially with the adorable, dorky mess the man turned out to be. It's such a ridiculous situation and Yuuri can't help but love it.

____

Victor beams before realizing what exactly Yuuri just said, eyes widening. “Wait you would—”

____

“Milkshakes. Let’s go get milkshakes, Victor.”

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> try to spot my love for yuuri in crop tops
> 
> please keep in mind that I danced ballet for like a year when i was 6 and live on the east coast. 95% of this fic is me pulling lines out of my ass and hoping nobody calls my bluff
> 
> other than that, i hope this doesn't suck too terribly. feedback is appreciated :-)
> 
> you can find me on tumblr [here](https://jj-dez.tumblr.com/) because i'm lonely and crave encouragement


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Victor is the one to show life and love to Yuuri.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am,,, so sorry. this was honestly supposed to be up two weeks after chapter one was put up but here we are three months later. i literally wrote six almost complete drafts of this before deleting each one because i was never satisfied with them, but i feel this one is leading most in the direction where i originally wanted this story to go. on a better note, now that it's summer i'll be doing my best to get updates out in a more timely and consistent manner.
> 
> also, i'm usually not a fan of switching povs mid chapter and wanted this story to be mainly, if not all, told from yuuri's perspective but somehow a victor pov of the club scene found its way into the final draft, don't ask me how that happened.
> 
> anyway, pls enjoy and as always, feedback is greatly appreciated :)

The music’s loud. The low thumping of the bass is sending vibrations through the floors and tables and an ache in his temples. Everyone around him is laughing and dancing, knocking back lines of colorful shots as their friends cheer and hoot behind them, bodies are covered in sweat and glitter, JJ’s giving out tramp stamps in the corner again, and everyone seems so _alive_ , their eyes alight with endless amounts of emotion and passion.

Victor is bored.

A while ago, he would have loved this scene, his blood made up of equal parts alcohol and adrenaline. He would’ve been amongst the sparkling dancers and drinking himself into oblivion like it was his last day on Earth, going and going until his knees were weak and his mind was nothing but a pleasant pile of mush and he was nursing a hangover the size of neptune the next morning with a smile on his face because he was _living_ and nobody could stop him or bring him down.

Now, he’s sat in a club he doesn’t know the name of and surrounded by people he doesn’t care about as he finished off only his second glass within two hours of being here, temples throbbing and counting down the minutes until it would be a polite enough time to excuse himself for the night.

It’s not too clear when he stopped living for the night life or when the thrill had started to die down, when the music became too loud or when the feeling of strangers’ hands grabbing at his hips became uncomfortable. Somewhere along the line his days have become a mundane cycle of repetitive tasks and routines and predictability. He’s unsatisfied with his life, that much he knows.

There’s something missing, a void that can’t be filled with endless glasses of vodka or blinding strobe lights or bodies pressed against bodies in the heat of the summer air. There’s an emptiness somewhere, a longing for something he can’t figure out in a place he can’t seem to find in himself.

Chris thinks he’s lonely. Maybe he is, Victor isn’t too sure. He doesn’t spend too much time outside his apartment aside from work or his morning jog, usually curled up on his sofa with Makkachin and a good book. He wouldn’t say he’s lonely, per se. He has Yura and Makka to keep him company during the week and he’s friendly enough with his colleagues that he can meet up with them for lunch when he feels up to it. He’ll head down to the bar once in awhile when he desperately needs a drink (Alone. Always alone.). He has no shortage of company if he ever desires it. The thing is, he doesn’t desire it. The idea of pointless small talk and polite fake laughter and boring questions like _how’re the kids?_ and _there’s been quite a bit of rain lately, huh?_ drive him insane with annoyance and make him want to drive his fist through a wall. It doesn’t count as being lonely if you don’t desire the company, right?

His friend usually indulges his antisocial tendencies, however today, despite his many protests, he’s been dragged out for a night of drinks with his best friend and a couple of his coworkers whose names he doesn’t remember since being introduced sometime around an hour ago, pretending to be engaged in whatever boring conversation they’re holding. It’s a less than ideal situation, although he appreciates his friend for making the effort.

He knows that Chris only means well, so he’ll pretend he’s having a good time for his sake. He participates in the conversation whenever appropriate, contributing useless opinions and small stories here and there. It manages to retain his interest for a little while longer before his attention drifts and his eyes start to wander over to the crowd of dancers bunched together on the dance floor until they rest on a sight that punches the air straight out of his lungs.

When he first sees the man, Victor is pretty sure he’s hallucinating. He’s young, probably in his early 20s, with jet black hair that looks unrealistically silky and slightly tanned skin that looks like it’s probably just a soft. He has a quiet gentleness about him despite his rigid and slightly on edge posture, with arms crossed in front of his chest in a protective manner, hunched over just slightly. He moves with an elegance that almost seems like he’s floating across the floor rather than walking, with smooth strides traced with fluidity and grace. He’s hypnotizing.

His eyes are a light brown, the lights casting almost red specks through them, sweet and soft, framed by blue rimmed glasses sitting atop of the cutest nose Victor’s ever seen on a person. They pull him in, keeping him transfixed until the man turns his head to respond to his conversation partner.

He immediately turns to Chris and asks him what the hell is in his drink because why is he delirious after only two of whatever the hell this is. Chris looks at him like he’s insane and tells him that it’s just rum and coke and to stop fucking around before returning to his conversation with a man that Victor is only half sure is named Andre. When he turns back to the dance floor to explain to his friend that this is no time for jokes, however, the beautiful man is gone and after several minutes of desperately scanning the crowded space from his seat, he begrudgingly accepts the fact that the angel was only a figment of his tipsy imagination and settles back into the booth to rejoin in the conversation with Chris and the others.

He credits himself for lasting about thirty minutes of listening to whatever it was they were talking about before he gets bored again and excuses himself to the bar to get another drink. Chris gives him a slight nod to acknowledge that he was heard, so he makes his way over.

He likes to think he’s on friendly terms with the bartender now, after hitting his self proclaimed mid-life crises after his latest birthday (“You’re twenty-six, Victor. This is hardly a mid-life crises.” “I’m _balding_ , Chris!”). He cheerily greets her and she slides his usual across the countertop with a scowl.

Well, he’s working on it. She’ll warm up to him eventually.

He’s halfway through his new drink when he sees the man for a second time and nearly drops the glass with a sharp intake of his breath. The gentle softness is gone, as if it’d never been there in the first place. It’s like a flip had switched, turned a complete 180, the adorable shyness gone, the rigidness of his posture vanished, instead replaced with utmost confidence as he holds himself with a practiced ease and comfort that has Victor staring in awe. The way he moves is classy, breathtaking, seductive yet modest, not grinding against his partners in a drunk haze but leading them in a dance tailored for two, passionate footwork and fluid steps that seem to come all too naturally.

Victor hears music. It’s not the pounding bass seeping from the speakers on the walls around him. He hears soft melodies and incredible notes that seem to flow from the dancer’s fingertips as he moves. There’s a warmth spreading around him, hugging his arms, legs, his cheeks and the tips of his ears. The dancer is beautiful. So earth shatteringly beautiful and he thinks that no orchestra, no musician, no genius can ever even dream of creating music as lovely as the tunes that come from the slight swaying of hips and perfectly timed shoulder rolls.

He can’t find words to describe this feeling in any of his three languages. There’s no praise high enough, worthy enough to be associated with this incredible soul. He’s entranced, never wants to look away.

Victor gets a better look now that the man is moving, almost completely facing him now. He actually does drop his glass this time and hears the bartender sigh heavily behind him. He’ll mourn the loss of their developing friendship later.

As his eyes trail over the rest of his body, he feels his jaw slacken and all the air leave his lungs in a rush. His eyes travel over gentle wrists and detailed hands as they run over full hips. The top he’s wearing perfectly showcases his toned stomach and thin waist, tight against his chest. His breath hitches when his eyes come across those _thighs_ , sculpted calf muscles and delicate ankles. Victor wonders if this is what heaven is like, wonders what good he’s done to deserve this kind of afterlife. The man feels reverent, untouchable. Sacred. Victor feels unworthy just looking at him.

And then the man laughs.

Victor’s heart stops beating right there. He doesn’t know who had said what to him, but he wants to give them an award and thank them profusely because it’s the most beautiful sound he’s had the pleasure of hearing in all his twenty six years of life. If he was a religious man, he would fall to his knees right here and thank the heavens for creating this ethereal being, with his head tilted back slightly as he smiles and his eyes crinkle at the corners in the most beautiful way imaginable. But Victor is a rational adult and knows that would probably be looked down upon in a public setting so he instead opts for rushing back to his booth and collapsing into the seat, absently noting that Chris is alone at the table now.

“Where’d the others go?” Victor half-heartedly inquires, hoping his disinterest isn’t as obvious as it feels.

Chris pouts. “Out for a smoke,” he sighs, then looks over at Victor with narrowed eyes. “What’s got you like that?”

Victor rests his chin on one of his hands, dopey smile playing across his lips. “Like what?” he asks.

“You’ve got that look on your face. The one you get when you’re about to give me a headache.” He jokes. Victor doesn’t even bother trying to pretend he’s offended by that. He sighs dramatically, dragging his index finger through the condensation on the outside of one of his old glasses.

“I’ve seen true beauty for the first time, Chris. I’ve been enlightened, blessed, I’ve seen new light.” Chris does not look amused.

“You’ve been gone for ten minutes, Victor. How many of those have you had?” he says, gesturing to the empty glass in front of him.

Maybe he’s had a couple drinks already, it’s not a big deal, he doesn’t see the point. He holds his liquor pretty well, mind you and Victor knows how to appreciate true art when he sees it, alcohol impaired brain or not. Victor places both his palms on the table before looking Chris in the eye with a seriousness that could rival even Lilia’s stoney expressions. “They were the best ten minutes of my life. I have never felt so privileged.” Chris sighs and probably realizes it would be better just to let Victor go on with his rant now rather than having him mope around later, because he raises an inquiring eyebrow and gestures for him to continue. Victor makes a mental note to tell Chris later how much he appreciates him. But for now, he sighs dreamily and tells his friend about the mystery man’s fluffy hair and his sugary eyes and his bewitching smile and how _you’ve never seen thighs so luscious._

“So when are you going to see him again?” Chris says when Victor pauses in his ramble of that adorable button nose of his.

Victor blinks. “When am I what?” Chris gives him a rather insulting look as he stirs his drink, looking bored despite the amusement shining in his eyes.

“You know, take him out or something. You got his number, right?”

“Did I…”

“Christ, Victor, did you even talk to him?” Victor sheepishly looks away from his friend’s judgmental stare. He hadn’t even thought about that. It takes Victor slightly longer than it should to realize Chris is laughing at him. Which, okay, rude.

Chris whistles lowly. “I’ll be damned,” he says with a slight shake of his head. “I never thought I’d see the day when Victor Nikiforov, playboy extraordinaire, gets nervous in front of a cute boy. It’s quite charming, actually.” Victor makes sure to send his worst glare Chris’s way. It probably doesn’t work because Chris is still laughing at him. He takes back what he said before. Chris is the worst best friend ever and Victor needs to find a new one very soon. One that won’t make fun of his incompetence in talking to cute boys, which is not something he has. Just to make sure.

“Ha ha, yes, very funny, Christophe. I’m not _shy_. It just slipped my mind.” Yes, that’s it. Victor doesn’t get nervous. He is poised and confident and has made people swoon with a simple hello and a wink in their direction. He’s never even _heard_ of nervous.

“Really?” Chris smiles.

Victor nods. “Really.”

“Then go back over there. Go get his number.” Victor pales for just a fraction of a moment before regaining his composure. Poised. Confident.

“I would, you see, but he looked terribly busy. I would hate to interrupt him, you know?” Victor says nonchalantly, reclining against the back of the booth.

“Really?” Chris scoffs.

“Really.”

Chris hums and moves to the side a bit to look over Victor’s shoulder and smirks. “But it looks to me there’s been a hottie with some cute glasses and killer thighs sitting alone at the bar for a while, looking very not busy. I could be wrong, though. After all, I’m sure there are plenty of guys here than can pull off a top like that.” Victor freezes for a moment before whipping around to scan the bar behind him. The angel is, in fact, sitting alone at the bar looking just as stunning as he had fifteen minutes ago. He frowns as he alarmingly notes the stares and hungry eyes directed at the man from other patrons. Well, that just won’t do.

After winning an intense glaring match with one of the patrons that had been not so subtly eying the dark haired man, Victor abruptly stands. “I’m going to get his number.”

“Yes you are. Don’t come back here without it, you hear me?” Chris shouts after him, ever the enabler. He psychs himself up for a quick thirty seconds before he strides over just in time to hear a beautiful voice put out a drink order. Victor nearly chokes as the velvety sound meets his ears, takes a minute to regain his cool composure and plasters on his most charming smile.

Poised. Confident.

You can _do this_ , Nikiforov.

“That one’s on me.”

-

Victor doesn’t get his number.

But that’s okay because Yuuri still agreed to go out with him even though he completely flopped and asked him to get a goddamn milkshake at half past one in the morning.

(Can you blame him though? Yuuri is mesmerizing from halfway across the room. It only makes sense for him to be this utterly transfixing from less than two feet away.)

He’ll worry about getting his number later.

-

The diner they end up in is a cute little hole in the wall about a fifteen minute walk from the club. It has a homey sort of feel to it, with its fluffy red booths and waitstaff that looks way too happy to be working at this hour. There’s a group of about seven older men in a corner of the restaurant drunkenly singing 60’s hits out of tune, framed posters of sports teams on the walls and a top 50 radio station playing in the background. The atmosphere is warm and cozy and Yuuri resists the urge to cuddle into the plush softness behind him as his tipsy brain purrs with content.

It’s nice, he thinks. It’s been years since he’s sat down and relaxed in a restaurant with company, his lunch breaks usually consisting of jogging to the grocery store, buying a salad, and eating it on the walk back. On special occasions, he’d take ten minutes to eat a sandwich in the park, feeding bits of bread and cheese to the little family of ducks that liked to keep him company from time to time.

Victor tells him bad jokes and Yuuri doesn’t even remember what he said by the time he gets to the punchline but he laughs so hard he cries anyway because Victor is laughing and it’s cute as hell and deserves the appreciation. When the waitress comes around and Victor orders them both chocolate avocado milkshakes, Yuuri is absolutely appalled and makes this known immediately. Victor just laughs at him with a confident wave of his hand and a _no trust me, you’ll love it_ and a beautiful heart shaped grin and well, who is Yuuri to deny that? What’s possible food poisoning to a smile like that, anyway.

It’s an experience.

 _Victor_ is an experience, with his ridiculous stories and dramatic sense of humor and the hundreds of pictures of his poodle taking up insane amounts of storage on his phone. He’s such an overwhelming presence and Yuuri finds himself getting sucked in deeper and deeper with each passing moment and each soft brush of hands on the tabletop and he can’t do a single thing about it but sit there and embrace it for what it is.

This can’t be good, he at some point realizes. It can’t be good in the way Victor’s laugh makes his heart jump and a shiver run down his spine, how the warm hand rubbing small circles on the back of his own is causing butterflies to dance in the pit of his stomach, how he finds himself smiling and sharing some of the most intimate details of his life with this man he’s known for less than three hours.

It can't be good because these sort of thoughts lead to _feelings_ and Yuuri can’t afford to have these kinds of feelings. He can’t afford to get attached to Victor for a multitude of reasons, the obvious aside. He should stop this before it gets too far.

(He should, but he really, _really_ doesn’t want to.)

Maybe it’s his work-obsessed brain that’s been keeping him from feeling this comfortable in the presence of another person all this time or maybe it’s because he’s just never met anyone quite like Victor before. He’s not too sure what it is, but the intensity of these emotions is startling. Startling, but oh boy is it welcomed.

Victor is like that, he’s learned. He’s a huge whirlwind of a person in both body and spirit. He’ll pull you in with his gorgeous looks and his charming persona, winks and smooth words, only to make room for the goofy idiot that loves his dog and sometimes forgets to finish his sentences because he gets too excited. He weasels himself into Yuuri’s comfort zone with such alarming speed and ease that it’s almost as if he was supposed to be there all along.

That’s just it, this thing that they’re doing, whatever it is, whatever it’s going to be, is burning too fast, engulfing him too quickly, every semblance of control Yuuri had or thought he had is being too quickly swallowed up in the flames. It’s alarming, terrifying, unnerving. It’s _wonderful_.

He should be worried because he realizes he doesn't care, either. Because as they end up tangled up in Victor’s sheets some time later that night, Yuuri can’t seem to muster up any other thought besides _Victorvictorvictor_ , because with the feel of Victor’s lips on his neck and his hands on his body, Yuuri’s mind is reduced to an incoherent stream of nonsense, because later, when he has his head pillowed on Victor’s chest and their legs are intertwined under the covers, he feels warm, safe.

Because when Victor murmurs a quiet, “Stay,” against his hair, he doesn’t want to say no.

Come morning, he’ll have to let him go, but he can’t help the minuscule shred of hope in the back of his mind that’s thinking maybe Victor would want to see him again once the sun rises and they’re both in their right minds, that this feeling that’s burning white hot underneath his skin and deep in his chest isn’t just the result of fruity cocktails screwing around with his brain chemistry, that he isn’t the _only one_. He has Victor for now, though, and that’s better than nothing.

(He shouldn’t, but he really, _really_ wants to.)

“Okay.”

Maybe Yuuri was right, in some twisted way, in his first impression of Victor. Though instead of the heartbreaking playboy that would leave him alone and pining, he’ll be an ephemeral moment of passing joy in his life that Yuuri never knew he needed until right now, that he finds himself chasing after, craving.

Yuuri can’t afford to have these feelings because when he feels, he feels with every part of his being, not leaving a fragment of his conscious self untouched. His mother says his passion is beautiful. He thinks it’ll be his downfall.

He hopes he’s too hungover tomorrow to remember the way Victor’s looking at him right now.

He also hopes the sight will be forever engrained in his memory.

(For now though, he relishes in the comfort of strong arms wrapped around him and the steady rise and fall of Victor’s chest beneath him.)

-

Morning rudely forces its way into Yuuri’s consciousness in the form of an insistent ringing. The sound rips through his already pounding head and he buries his face into the comforting warmth beneath him with a pained groan. He gropes blindly to his right, where his phone usually sits on the table next to his bed in an attempt to silence his alarm, frowning when his hands hit more sheets.

He’s tempted to just ignore the obvious problem with this situation and go back to sleep as the ringing finally ceases, but after a blissful fifteen seconds of silence, it starts up again. Yuuri sighs and sits up, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes as his headache worsens from the movement. He turns to his right to search for his phone only to stop dead in his tracks.

This isn’t his bedroom. This isn’t Phichit’s guest bedroom either. The walls are too blue and the sheets are too soft and he’s just starting to register the arm that’s still loosely wrapped around his waist.

Okay, this is fine. There’s no need to panic. This doesn’t mean anything, he tells himself. He starts to slowly lift up the covers, just to make sure, because surely they aren’t—

They’re naked. This is bad. This is so bad. He’s been away from home for less than four days and he’s already given his virginity away to a stranger. His mother would be so disappointed in him. _Phichit would be so proud of him._

His eyes lock on the strands of silver fanned across the pillow, the red blotches scattered across pale skin and he’s hit full force with a new wave of emotion because he remembers, of course he does, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget. Memories of losing himself in oceans of blue, drowning and letting himself be pulled under, gentle smiles and warm glances and soft hands reverently holding his, dancing on the sidewalk in the middle of the night as they fell over with laughter and kissed under the flickering street lights and giggled against each other’s mouths. He remembers, but he wishes he didn’t.

He doesn’t know what Victor will say when he wakes up, if it’ll be an awkward _good morning_ as they both get dressed and go their separate ways, if the silence will be so tense that he actually suffocates before he can even try to make uncomfortable small talk. Maybe he should just leave. He could slip out while Victor is still sleeping and let that be the end of it.

It’s a good plan. He could leave right now, be out the door in three minutes tops and they’ll never cross paths again. It’ll save him from the pain of rejection, that’s for sure.

The thought puts a bitter taste in his mouth. It’s stupid, he knows. It’s so stupid because Yuuri has gone his whole life without getting himself attached to another person, but then Victor just walked right into his little bubble of personal space so quickly he didn’t even have a chance to defend himself and made him start feeling things he isn’t supposed to be feeling but chases after nonetheless and _it’s so stupid_ because he doesn’t want to let him go, not yet.

There aren’t a lot of things Yuuri has been sure about these past few weeks. He’s not sure how much longer he’ll be able to keep dancing, he’s not sure how to fix the relationships he’s messed up along the way, but most importantly, now that he’s been thrust back into the harsh reality of the outside world, he isn’t sure how to actually _live_.

He breathes and he blinks and he cries and he bleeds, he wakes up in the morning, he drinks water when he’s thirsty, he goes to sleep when the moon is high in the sky, and he dances and he dances and he _dances_. His whole life has been pushing and pulling, bending and twisting, driving himself into the ground to get to where he is now. He’s never had the chance to experience the things his peers have, the ups and downs, the bumpy rides and the detours, this whole time he’s been traveling in a straight line towards his goal, no distractions, no pit stops, no wrong turns.

But in the short time he’s spent with Victor, he’s experienced a small taste of what life is really supposed to be like, of how good it can feel to let his brain stop thinking for a little while and just let things happen as they come, of letting himself trust, letting himself want, letting himself _be wanted_ in return, of feeling the wind on his face and warmth in his soul and the pure, unadulterated joy that runs through his veins when Victor gives him that look that makes him think, even if just for a minute, that Yuuri is something worth keeping around.

Yuuri isn’t too sure what falling feels like, but if it’s anything like this, he doesn’t think he’s opposed to finding out.

It’s only when the ringing starts up for the third time that Yuuri finally snaps back into reality, frantically searching for the source of the noise. He manages to find his phone in the pocket of his jeans somewhere across the room and silences it. He finds his underwear near the foot of the bed and decides to put those on in case Victor does wake up before he gathers up the courage to sneak away and sees him standing naked in the center of his bedroom like an idiot.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there with his phone vibrating constantly in his hands, unable to force himself to tear his eyes away from the way the light streams from the window and casts soft shadows across Victor’s cheekbones. Probably long enough to be considered creepy. Definitely way too long because now Victor is moving, rolling onto his back and stretching and _oh god he’s waking up_ and all Yuuri can do is just stand there like a deer caught in headlights as Victor slowly sits up and opens his eyes. He blinks a few times before his eyes finally focus on Yuuri. He holds his breath, ready for Victor to yell at him or tell him to go home, ask what he’s still doing here.

Yuuri meets his eyes and Victor smiles warmly at him, an expression he’s had the privilege of getting acquainted with yesterday and still manages to turn his insides into a giant pile of goo. “Yuuri,” He breathes out, his smile softening that much more. Yuuri blinks in surprise and can’t help the giddy feeling that spreads throughout his body at the genuine adoration, in his tone. So far, so good.

“Good morning, Victor,” He murmurs softly, not daring to speak any louder in fear that the peaceful atmosphere will shatter with the smallest increase of volume. His efforts are in vain though because when Victor opens his mouth to say something else, his phone once again starts buzzing in his hands. Two pairs of eyes snap down to look at the device. Victor lets out a low chuckle and Yuuri turns his gaze to watch his lips quirk into an amused grin.

“Are you going to answer that?” He says, looking down at the object in his hands and Yuuri is momentarily distracted because his accent is heavy with sleepiness and he forgets how to think for a minute because how does anybody have the right to be that endearing yet so sexy at the same time? He wants to take the cute little way he rolls his ‘r’s and make it into a blanket so he can wrap it around himself all the time and be covered in the warmth it radiates.

Yuuri flushes and glares down at his phone with mild distaste because honestly, what can be more important than this moment right now? Nothing, he thinks. Nothing will ever be more important than the way Victor looks when he’s all sleep soft and delicate smiles. So he shuts it off. “It can wait,” he says sheepishly, dragging his eyes back up to the man in front of him.

Once the phone is silenced and placed down on the bed, the the warm atmosphere is gone and replaced with a silence that Yuuri isn’t sure is an awkward silence or a comfortable one because his mind is too busy working overdrive because what if that was a stupid thing to do? What if Victor thinks he’s weird because he put a phone call on hold just to be able to experience a couple more seconds of the comfortable peace they had between them? Oh God, he should have just answered the phone because now he just looks desperate and any chance there might have been of seeing Victor again is now gone and—

“Would you like to have coffee with me?” Yuuri’s head snaps up from the spot on the floor he’s been unconsciously scrutinizing while lost in his thoughts.

“Huh?” he gets out, unsure if he heard correctly because _what?_ Victor’s face doesn’t show any signs of annoyance or cruelty, though, just sleepy smiles and soft eyes and Yuuri allows himself to think that maybe Victor isn’t upset with him after all.

The rational part of Yuuri’s brain is telling him to say no, that despite all the joy Victor has brought into his life so far, he’s only a passing fixation, that the longer he allows himself to spend time with Victor, to learn more about his quirks and strange habits and his favorite books, the harder it will be when he has to inevitably let him go.

The irrational part of his brain, however, is telling him that it’ll hurt anyway, so what does it matter? If his time with Victor is limited, why shouldn’t he make the most of it?

Maybe it’s selfish to think like that, selfish to want to keep whatever this is alive for longer than it needs to be. It may be selfish, but Yuuri has never allowed himself to listen to the part of his brain that tells him to follow his heart, has never done something without raking through his mind for hours, listing every single possibility and every negative outcome. It’s okay, he thinks, to be selfish this one time. If Victor wants to keep him around, he’ll stay around for as long as he can.

“I mean, coffee sounds great,” he says with his most genuine smile he can muster up.

He’s already in way too deep, anyway. Might as well go out with a bang.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brunch specials and avocado skins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who's alive!!
> 
> this is the smallest chapter i have ever even though about putting out and im soo sorry that i've been MIA for like ten years just to put out this garbage but!!! i just wanted to make sure everyone knew that this fic is NOT abandoned!! i have every intention of finishing this baby, even if it kills me. i'm currently working on what was supposed to be a continuation of this chapter, but i got impatient and decided to post what i already had written. next chapter will be up in two weeks time, that's a promise

It’s said that when you die, your brain releases a final burst of energy so strong and vivid that the pictures in your mind come alive right in front of you, indistinguishable from the real world. Your life flashes before your eyes, you relive the best moments of your existence, your subconscious brings out your deepest hidden wishes and pulls them forward to what you would truly believe is reality. 

So naturally, Yuuri must be dying.

It’s the only logical explanation he can fathom as to why he’s made so many impulsive decisions in the past week that would have never even crossed his mind just a month ago. He’s dying, but his conscious self hasn’t realized it yet so the unconscious part of his brain is making him to do all these crazy things to feel some sort of fulfillment out of his stupid boring life.

Or he’s just lost every ounce sanity he’s had left. Which, to be fair, he doesn’t think was very much to begin with.

He digresses. Now that the rush of adrenaline and internal defiance and a slight hangover has worn off, he’s finally piecing together the current situation he’s somehow managed to place himself in:

He’s sitting in the passenger’s seat of a bright pink convertible that most likely costs more than the entire sum of his competition prize money from the past year, watching as the most beautiful man he’s ever come into contact with drives about 25 over the speed limit to get them to his favorite restaurant before the brunch special ends after the best (alright, only) one night stand he’s yet to experience.

He’s still a bit too tired to sort out exactly how he’s supposed to deal with all of this, so he just quietly files that thought away to be concerned with later and rests his head against the window to watch Victor continue to sing and bop his head to whatever pop song is playing on the radio at the moment. A small smile ghosts across his lips before he can think better of it.

Cute.

The car slows to a stop at a red light minutes later. Victor catches his eye when he glances over, a faint blush spreading across the tops of his cheeks.

“What?” he smiles.

Yuuri turns his head away, hiding his grin behind his hand. “Nothing.”

 Victor pouts and leans over the console. “Yuuuri, how mean. You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?”

 He allows for a small giggle to escape this time, turning his head to face Victor again. “I was just thinking you could give Miley Cyrus a run for her money, that’s all.”

“Well, I’m glad someone finally realizes the extent of my musical abilities,” He loudly clears his throat before tossing his head back and belting out the next lyrics.

Yuuri’s giggles turn into full bodied laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners in what must not be a very attractive way, “Victor— Victor, wait—”

“ _’Cause now I’m as free as birds catching the wind—_ ”

“Victor, the light is _green_!” An impatient beep from the car behind them unfortunately brings the impromptu concert to an end.

“Whoops,” Victor leans out the window to give the woman a cheerful wave and a smile. She flips him off.

Victor pouts, “That was a bit rude.” The car speeds forward again, picking up its previous pace. Yuuri really hopes they don’t get pulled over.

This feeling is so uniquely refreshing and exhilarating that even the air surrounding them is swirling and pulsing with excitement. It’s the feeling of the blood pulsing through your veins, the air circulating in your lungs, the distinct feeling of being alive and breathing and living. It’s so strange, it’s so _natural_ , like maybe he was supposed to end up here all along.

And there’s the alcohol talking again. He occupies himself by alternating enjoying the views to both his left and right to keep his mind from conjuring up crazy ideas again. He met this guy 12 hours ago for christ’s sake.

The rest of the car ride continues in much of the same fashion, Victor managing to rope Yuuri into singing along to some of the songs he’s actually familiar with. They don’t get pulled over, thankfully, and manage to catch brunch with 45 minutes to spare.

Yuuri learns that restaurants in California are, in fact, just as quirky as the internet tells you they are, which perplexes him a small bit because who would actually want to drink their latte out of an avocado skin when you can just drink it out of a far less messy and far more convenient mug?

Victor, apparently. Which is… fitting, he guesses.

As if reading his mind, Victor looks over and feels the need to explain himself, “It’s aesthetic, Yuuri.”

“Aesthetic,” Yuuri deadpans.

Victor takes a pointed sip out of his avocado skin. “Aesthetic.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow before crossing his hands under his chin. “How are you going to put that down without spilling it all over the table?”

Almost as if he was _prepared_ for this very question, Victor flashes him a bright smile and places the avocado gently on top of one of the glasses of water their waitress brought out for them when they were seated, the avocado sitting perfectly still in the opening of the glass.

Yuuri stares at it for a solid 15 seconds, looks up at Victor, looks back down at the avocado, opens his mouth to say something, closes it, sighs, and admits defeat.

“It’s still stupid,” is what he eventually decides on.

Victor feigns hurt for all of two seconds before he gives in and huffs out a laugh, “Yeah, you’re not wrong,” and takes another sip out of the goddamn avocado.

For the first time in his life, Yuuri finds the conversation to be flowing naturally. He’s calm, somehow, as opposed to the stuttering and panicking that usually follows the presence of unfamiliar company.

Sometimes Victor talks too fast and trips over his words, and sometimes he goes on tangents that Yuuri has trouble following because none of it actually makes sense, and sometimes he says things that are just outright stupid, but it makes him that much more human, less like he’s _the sexiest man yuuri has ever seen_  and more of _a person that he genuinely enjoys spending time with that isn’t his mom._

They swap stories about their home countries, stupid things they did when they were teenagers, stupid things they do as adults. Yuuri laughs freely and _maybe_ he snorts once or twice accidentally. It’s okay. It’s _comfortable._

Weird. Maybe he’s still a bit hungover.


End file.
